


Italian Rain

by eurydice72



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M, Post: s05e22 Not Fade Away, Reunion Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-06
Updated: 2012-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-07 01:52:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/425595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eurydice72/pseuds/eurydice72
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes losing everything in LA to drive Spike back to Buffy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Italian Rain

**Author's Note:**

> Set after AtS finale. Originally written for joss_las on LJ. The prompt was to write either Spuffy or Spander.

Italian rain smelled different.

Spike knew that was ridiculous, of course. He’d been in Rome before, dozens of times---well…twice---and he knew the wankers put their pants on one leg at a time, just like the rest of the world. He knew in spite of a certain immortal’s presence that always managed to ruin everything he tried to plan, that vampires still roamed the streets at night, that young people still partied until dawn, that the sun would rise and set on a schedule that coincided with the rest of the world. So there was absolutely no reason to think that rain slicking the weathered stones on a Roman piazza was any different than that back in California.

Except it was.

Spike breathed it in, ignoring the fact that his leather was going to be ruined by standing in the middle of a downpour, and he didn’t smell the blood that had clogged the tiny Los Angeles alley where Angel had lost his head. He let it fall on his waiting tongue, and he couldn’t taste the dragon’s breath that had heated the rain in LA to painful proportions. Italian rain was different, rich with the scent of soil and the tang of hope.

It made Spike weep. Because he was here to know and the others weren’t.

He saw her feet first, his head bowed as the minutes ticked by. Stylish boots in expensive Italian leather. The hems of her jeans were soaking wet from walking in the rain; his coat would not be the only thing ruined by the timing of their meeting.

When he lifted his eyes to find hers, he wasn’t entirely sure what he would see. Anger, maybe, since it took Angel’s death to drive him back to her. Sadness for close to the same reason. Pity. 

Buffy surprised him. She always did. Her mouth was soft, and even in the dusky shadows of the wet night, her eyes gleamed with compassion. “Great,” she said, jokingly. “I put make-up on for the first time since you called, and not only does it rain but you’re crying, too. Thanks a lot, Spike.”

His lips twitched. “You could look like Rocky the Raccoon and still be the most beautiful thing in the room, pet.”

This time, she looked like she really might cry, and she turned away to hide her face from him, gesturing vaguely back to the main street. “We’re not far from my place,” she said. “If we’re lucky, it might even stop---”

Her words were quelled by his sudden hug. It was awkward with her body angled sideways, but Spike didn’t care, his arms wrapping around her slim body to crush her against his chest. Buffy twisted within seconds, and though his muscles tensed, prepared for her flight, she chose instead to slide her arms beneath his coat and hold him just as tightly back.

He buried his nose in her damp hair, inhaling her shampoo and the lingering musk of her perfume. After hours had passed and stories had been told, he had no doubt there would be arguments about why it had taken him so long to talk to her and did he really think he could just waltz back into her life and pick up where they had left off. There would likely be other, less logical things for Buffy to throw in his face as well, but Spike was prepared to answer for all of it. Now, though, they both needed their moment of solace.

She whispered in his ear. He had to squeeze his eyes shut to block the fresh round of tears.

“It’s OK, Spike. You’re home now.”

As they headed back to the main road, arms entwined around the other’s body like couples out of old French movies, Spike blocked out the scents of the city around him and focused on her instead. Italian rain still smelled different.

But Buffy would forever smell the same.


End file.
